Odangoes For Ami?: A SM Sampler
by Kate-Le-Contrary
Summary: Drama, Tragicomedy, Horror, Romance, Sci-fi, Friendship, Fantasy, AU...and Western? Oneshots, drabbles, and short stories for EVERY character and EVERY genre. Requests and walk-ins welcome and applauded. [Much newer stories in the back.]
1. INDEX

**Odangoes For Ami?! **

_**A Sailor Moon Sampler**_

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><p>"An anthology of oneshots, drabbles, and short stories on different topics and characters. Something for everyone."<p>

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><p><strong>INDEX OF STORIES:<strong>

.

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><strong>

**2011**

_**Horror Story (parts I, II, & III)** _

—They're all in danger. Something unexpected attacks the senshi: twist ending.

_**The Puzzle Pieces** _

—Exploring the origins of senshi. Theories happen.

**_Dark Moon_**

—A curse is ignored. Too late.

**_Reminder_**

—Usagi finds Mamoru reading shoujo. Angstflufftastic.

**_Slumberer_**

—Artemis always survives: he begins his search for others.

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**2012**

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**_Whimsy_**

—AU. Minako is an auditioning singer; Mamoru is a critic.

**_Improbability_**

—Time finally has meaning for Setsuna: she experiences catharsis.

**_Like Clockwork_**

—Paradoxes have to start somewhere. Dimande sets his fate in motion, again and again…

**_On Some Days, It Rains_**

—Ami's father isn't anything like her mother. The Mizunos fall in love, fall apart, and rain falls.

**_Odangoes For Ami?_**

—Friends make you realize things about yourself that you didn't know. A typical day in the life of Ami Mizuno.

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><p>Check back for updates. Last update: 1124/12


	2. Horror Story, Part I: Pyro

******SAILOR MOON and all associated properties belong to Naoko Takeuchi and to a lesser extent, Kodansha and Toei******

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><p><strong>Horror Story, Part I<strong>

_Kate-Le-Contrary_

It was after that fourth youma battle together that we realized the full, horrifying extent of our actions.

Mercury had lost her cool for a moment when she was thrown over the roof of a building and just barely managed to grasp the edge with bleeding fingers. She was now shivering and shaking with the tension in her muscles as Jupiter slowly pulled her up onto the rooftop with one arm. Jupiter herself had been touched by the youma's nerve-manipulating shocks and the other arm dangled useless and numb from her shoulder. Moon had sprained her ankle from tripping on the way to the battle.

"Luna," an uninjured Venus called as quietly as possible from the ground, "come help me with Mars. I'm not sure if she's hurt or not."

My original thought was that Mars had taken a pretty hard hit.

"Rei, are you fine? Can you hear me?" she was flat on her bum, staring straight at the spot where her fire had seared over a bush and whooshed dead into a tree.

The flames roared into the black skyline, snapping twigs and crackling dead leaves.

"Rei?" her eyes focused on the smoking fingertips of her gloves, an awestruck look covering her face. Slowly, _oh so slowly_, she lifted her eyes up to glance back at us.

And then, like a dizzying dream, a manic grin spread slowly over her face.

I should have known too many cases of memory loss and reincarnation could have caused this. I should have known.

We had unleashed a pyromaniac.


	3. The Puzzle Pieces

**Puzzle Pieces**

_Kate-Le-Contrary_

_In a niche of our universe, on a tiny, yet not-so-tiny planet named Terra, in an indeterminate time and location, a cellphone was wailing out the chorus of a synth-pop song._

_On this particular planet (more loosely referred to as _Earth_), there was a girl…_

…No. That's not right at all. The term 'girl' is just too _general. _And, _in fact_, there were several girls involved. But this particular condensation of sentient, gaseous, carbon-based matter filled mostly with water had fairly low pigmentation content; therefore, the resulting female, thirteen-year-old humanoid was fair-skinned and blonde. Which would later be unusual, and, as it turns out, Quite Useful.

Maybe this universe was special. A really really _really_ long time before this cell phone began to ring (_not_ the night before, at dinner; but much further back than that) there had a been a woman who figured out a very hard-to-solve puzzle which gifted her with a lot of power over other carbon-based life forms in the general vicinity of a solar system, and…

…more recently, the puzzle had been lost. But not before she _re_-figured out some other stuff that some other woman before her had thought of who also may or may not have created the puzzle in the first place, and…

…well, the lady who figured out the puzzle was very diplomatic (being a Queen) and gifted a few special _items_ of questionable origins to the stars themselves. Eh, maybe not. A Galaxy Stewpot or some other unimportant cooking-ware like that was involved… Or that was how The Legend went when someone force-fed The Truth to it and The Legend went home with constipation and firm resolve not to eat The Truth again.

But as anyone plunging over the top of Tokyo Tower (as tourists stare up at her, wondering if it is a stunt show) will state, no one cares about the past, Legends, or the uncanny Truth very much. Unless it is extremely relevant to one's immediate survival…

…ANYHOW, this pocket of the universe had seen some strange things. And both The Truth and The Legend agreed on one thing: the end result of previously mentioned Queen's actions were a near dozen Sailor-Suited Pretty Guardian Soldiers of Justice, representing every somewhat-populated planet there was in this solar system. Pretty much. There may have been a few exceptions, but nothing currently worth noting.

This all fell into the murkiness of The Legend. Maybe some neighboring universe had Hockey Players in Spaceman Costumery defending truth, and the Queen (and her questionable fashion sense) was just one of many to figure out the puzzle. There could be the Lingerie-Dressed Models of Strength and Tranquility—or even a big team of bathrobe-wearing guys who smacked each other with giant glowsticks—out to protect their galaxy as well. At least the Queen had been original. That first girl from Pluto had been a real practical joker at first and had some fun with her new-found abilities and who knows what crazy (but later, convenient) clothing fads she may have started within times past and present...

And after a while the Queen got tired of all this and sailed off to find new universes and made the star embryos…er, _seeds…_ lie quietly again. A few people said at the time that it was some trouble with Saturn that she hadn't wanted to deal with at all. But that's really not important either. Whatever the reasons, the star seeds lay dormant again, and the first Queen (or eighth, or 1,887,943rd) vanished.

Until, more then two thousand years before the cellphone rang, a girl found the puzzle lying in the dust of the quaint, singular moon of Terra (known formally as _Luna_), and used it to bring the prosperity and unity to the solar system. This moon, _Luna_, had been no special place. Quite a while before, a foreign object from other dimensions had smashed into the Earth and formed into this moon. Luna had always been thought of as a backwater moon—the girl became Queen and made it the center of the Solar System. Or, perhaps she had already been Queen… It is Theory that people follow, not Fact, after all.

There is no such thing as a Fact if one means to be scientific about a matter. Or, if there are Facts, all of them are Theories that happen to be fashionable.

History usually repeats itself. (Some have argued that History repeats people, too.) But this other woman, the _Queen_, had (maybe) once been a poor farm-girl or perhaps a trapeze artist, and thus easily persuaded to love. So, some believed that the Princess was created. Others believed she was born same as everyone else. But no matter the circumstances, there was a mother—one willing to do anything to keep her daughter safe forever. So this mother did the thing that the (solved) puzzle warned her not to do. She brought the Senshi back—the ones she _wanted_ to reawaken, that is—for what may have been the third time. Or more.

All the planets had a champion now—the Earth and the Sun had some strange combination that the puzzle warned her might happen with the lack of necessary princesses, and Saturn remained half in-stasis, but…

"_There is no way to keep the pieces from falling into place."_

…The Queen finally realized, as her last breath left her and she held a icy stone in icier hands, that the puzzle had been controlling her. She hadn't ever had _real_ control in the first place. So, desperately, she reached for the source of her power, and created something new. Hopefully it would be enough to change the puzzle itself, somewhere in the most distant future. A new piece in the game…

**B**ut the result was always the same one thousand years from then.

**E**very.

**S**ingle.

**T**ime.

The expensive cellphone spewed out synth-pop until Minako finally untangled it from her handbag. The cat, lying on the couch, gave her an oddly sentient stare.

"Really, Mum? We're moving back to Japan? Wonderful!"

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><p><em>Moon Lore and wacky theories galore.<em>

_Anyone reading this? Feel free to request as Anon via review._

_Hehe, did anyone notice that the bold a bit up spells '**BEST**'? Maybe I'm subconsciously praising my own writing_

_**REVIEW. YES, REVIEWWWW**, my pretties…_

-Kate


	4. Dark Moon

**Dark Moon**

_Kate-Le-Contrary_

In the dark side of the moon hides a secret.

Of course, _they_ weren't likely to even admit that the moon had a dark side. They would have laughed it off, saying, "The moon has no dark side! How silly! See—every side is touched by sunlight at one time or another."

But the truth is that those who resided on the moon at that time had no dreams. When they sleep, there is no land they slip to. Or, should they slip through the strong barrier between the dark world and the light, they would only find nightmares.

When the people of the moon sleep, they go nowhere. Their minds slip—are redirected—into the crevices where there is absolutely nothing. And there they are nothing, not living in any way, not even horror or dread filling them—or whatever is left of them in those eternal seconds until the sun rises and the psyche snaps awake, reborn with the sun. The Silence is where they are, and they do not know._ They_ _are not there to know_.

Things in the dark of the moon are fragile. There are glass copies of your own figure that shatter into dust and lurking trees that move whenever you look up from the horror of the windless, ice-encrusted grass. In places, there are nothing but deserts where spiny creatures roam, made of nothing but broken whispers and shadowy loam. They do nothing but consume, creeping steadily until there is just another desert: slow torture of the land.

Even worse and more unholy than the deserts are the frozen seas. There are no boats and it is _not_ clear and yellowy-turquoise. In _most_ places you cannot see the preserved carcasses of whales and fish and green-lit anglers forever petrified miles and miles of clouded ice below.

Rather, when you look into the crest of a frozen wave (still climbing onto a rusty, chalky beach like the very moment it died), a murky blackness—'_lemures'_ _is the old word_—creeps around mysterious lumps and one cannot help but feel that they are the same spiny shadows, slowly moving in the soft shifting of ice to creep under your feet.

The moon once had dreams. They had never noticed the dreams had gone missing, mostly because those last few days before it all ended, before _it ended,_ were days of turmoil and fear and one didn't sleep much. Those laughing Lunarians would have laughed a bit dizzily, their minds crowded with thoughts of revolutions and terror and fallen governments too close for comfort. The uneasy queen had sealed the dream world off, her mind grave with worry that she did not show to anyone. She alone walked the dark of the moon—the red beaches and frozen seas—alone and powerless every night, trying to find the missing link—the cure to this darkness and chaos she sensed. No one noticed the creases in her brow that sometimes wrinkled when she sat alone, or the way she clutched her daughter's hand harder than usual. She knew that there was more to this than what happened on the planet revolving below, or the surging outbreak of darkness; it was starting to creep into her delicate world from all sides. There was more to this than just the Dark Kingdom, although she did not know what.

She would never live to find out.

It does not matter that I am telling you this, because nowadays the White Moon is dead. Pale dust collects on broken columns, the world as dry and barren as what lies beneath the surface. There are no ghostly laughs to echo in the space-wind, nor breathable air left at all. The melded architecture of royalty collapses, all evidences of battles or war or disease utterly gone. There are no corpses to be seen, no sign of sentient life or the remains of geniuses. It is a forgotten world, and only a single set of strangely small boot-prints mark the dust, as well as a thin, marked imprint where something long and straight had possibly been dropped.

The Dead Moon's curse had finally crept up towards the surface.


	5. Reminder

******DISCLAIMER: Sailor Moon and all associated belong to NAOKO TAKEUCHI (and to a lesser extent Kodansha and Toei)****  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Reminder<strong>

_Kate-Le-Contrary_

**Words:** 993

**Category**: Romance/Humor/Angst?

**Characters:** Usagi, Mamoru

**Type: **oneshot

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><p>Sometimes he won't let her forget some things she would like to forget.<p>

In fact, he is earnest in bringing them up when he feels bad for not feeding Luna or leaving her to deal with the bills while he takes a joyride on his motorcycle like he sometimes does but has never admitted to. Or, those times he just leaves the apartment in the middle of the night and goes and buys gratuitous amounts of chocolate at the 24-hour store and eats it alone on park bench because he was a very deprived child. (He doesn't know she knows, because he thinks she is a very deep dreamer. She isn't when there is a chilly draft from the balcony he left open.)

It is one of those times she catches him eating her private stash of cookies, the chocolate chips smearing his half-unbuttoned tuxedo jacket as he reads her shoujo manga (originally stolen from Rei) that he says it.

(In his most masculine voice, of course, considering she has just seen him reading.)

"This is for… _research_ purposes. It's not what you think." His first priority is to defend himself.

She narrows her eyes, wedding ring on hips.

"Usako, remember when I left you for that year in America. Or when I got sick, and then you got a cold because of me." He looks embarrassed about his cookie-crumbed gloves, and she feels her heart melt a bit as he lowers his voice, even though there is no one else in the dark apartment.

"I don't know why you're still here, with my strange habits and the things I've done. I'm sorry for everything. For still wearing things that you hate, and not telling you which skirt I like better when you go shopping, and—" He shields himself from her, grabbing a manga from the stack of romance novels that sits beside him.

She's got him whipped.

He'll keep on acting like a kicked dog if she lets him…

_(She does)_

He lists every evil thing he's ever done to her (in his opinion).

"—and back when I called you Odango all the time even though _heaven knows why you didn't like it_, and that one time when I was late for our date—" he gestures with the one bare hand, and knocks the top hat right off his ridiculous (obviously sleep-deprived) head.

She finds herself enjoying this, mostly she is wondering what on earth he was _actually_ doing and if he will take a hint from that particular manga, _but_ mostly because she has forgotten what he will say next.

"—and _especially _that time I hit you with the car." She looks into his blue eyes that are backlit with _real_ guilt. He looks back, and she notices that they are starting to water at the edges and suddenly it no longer feels like a game because he is starting to actually _think_ about the sad things that have happened to them. It is too late at night for this, and he is too tired from writing final essay after essay and emotions are high.

They look at each other, a modern grad-school Romeo and his arms-crossed Juliet who looks increasingly dangerous.

She hisses, and she means it. Things have become too real for her.

"You. Will. Not Speak. Of. That."

"Yes, Usako."

"_Ever._ " comes the emphasis. She cannot _stand_ the look in his eyes.

She cannot take the look because it mirrors that day. Because, more than anything, there are some things she doesn't want to remember, like the frenzied, worried look in his eyes when he crouched over her, sobbing and calling her name because she had just jumped out from behind the parking lot corner trying to surprise him and _accidents happen_ and SHE is the one who is supposed to worry and cry over him, never the other way around.

She never wants to hear him apologize for that. _She_ wants to apologize for him looking at her like he was about to lose the last thing left in the world, like he _would have_ if it had been more than just a hard smack that pushed her backwards into another parked car. She remembers his shaking form while she — just having been _hit by a car _— is steady, and comforting him as he insists on examining her again and _again _to make sure she is in one piece and she has to say '_I'm alright_' fifty times before he is calm. He doesn't remember it, or perhaps he has blocked it from his mind, because she is _good_ at comforting people and hugging them and saying _it will all be better it wasn't your fault_.

She remembers that he is an orphan. She cannot watch him suffer, so she hates to remember the times she has made him suffer.

Now she feels bad. He has no idea why she is suddenly upset, so it is time to make him stop his incessant worrying.

"_Well_." Is the one word she thinks up.

"I'm really sorry." He adds as an after-statement, feebly, weakly. She thumps down next to him, her arms reaching around his tuxedoed shoulders for the plate of cookies.

"I love you too much to see you sad, Mamo-chan."

"I love you, Usako." He says simply, and sounds bewildered. He wonders if she is on her period or something.

"Why where you reading my _[Rei's!]_ romance manga?" she says it with real curiosity, biting into a cookie.

"Oh!" comes his remembering tone, and then…

_ Then…_

His voice turns deliciously dark and smooth. It is like a cookie. Warm. Sweet. Chocolatey. "I thought we might take a break from writing papers and things and try…a few…_things_…Miss Moon."

"Ohhh." Comes her breathy comprehension. "So you actually _were_ researching…"

Sometime about midnight, Luna turns at the window, yowls, and runs off to sleep at Minako's. And in the morning, all the cookies are gone.

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><p>THANK YOU to<p>

Antigone2 for reviewing! :D


	6. Slumberer

_Disclaimer: Sailor Moon and related properties are owned mainly by Naoko Takeuchi and in part by Toei Animation. _

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><p>'<strong>Slumberer'<strong>

**Words**: 660

**Category**: Hurt/Comfort/Sci-Fi

**Characters:** Artemis, Luna

**Type: **oneshot

_Kate-Le-Contrary_

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><p>Floating among countless perceived sparks of burning gas known as stars, dim and cool, lit only by dead million-year old light from said stars, is a bed.<p>

Or, a boxy-looking round sort of cylindrical square thing. When one is observing this from a distance that takes light eight minutes to travel to, with questionably old equipment, it makes it quite unsure.

_He_ thinks it is most likely to be a cylinder, filled with darkened, turquoise-flecked biogel.

Yes. He can imagine it: inside, a lithe, atrophied body coiled like an embryo, darker and stiffer than the biogel it floats in and _waiting to be reborn_.

In stasis for near a thousand years.

It is, in essence, a bed.

But that is an educated guess. A hope. He knows that _he_ arrived in a boxy-looking cylinder thing this way, but that means next to nothing. He doesn't even know if she is _alive_. He doesn't even know if his search will bring up results.

Maybe he is the only one left in the universe who even _knows_ what the universe once was. Maybe he is the only _real _survivor of an entire galaxy—the only one with any memories of the truth.

_The last from Mau. The last from Silver Millenium._

It echoes in Artemis's feline mind, colliding in the horrifyingly empty crannies where knowledge used to be.

Stasis brings slow memory decay. The little moments of his former life aren't even there to be awoken; the memories are simply nonexistent.

He realizes he can't even remember his home planet, and, with a shudder, makes himself stop thinking about it.

_The mission could be futile_, something whispers again in his too-hollow brain. His brain is trapped in this form, a form which is useless in ways where he _needs_ it to be strong. It was next to impossible just to steal this radar and telescope—and they are both only half-working. He drags a cord across the broken arcade game with his teeth.

Building. Putting last touches on _it._

This old technology, marked with swirling Lunarian script he can no longer read. The only other survivor he knows of. He snaps the thin blue wire across the copper one, and twists the two together.

There is an orange spark that singes his whiskers.

With a whir, the computer blinks back to life. Revived...like he had been, only a year before.

The small figure gives a cry, and bounds to where the monitor asks for a password in an ancient language. He frowns as much as a cat _can_ frown, and it repeats the question in a purring Mau-language voice. Artemis almost laughs in relief. He knows the password.

"All cats are black at night." He says, mewing.

Clicks; to process his entry request, _then..._

The motherboard monitor blinks back to black, but that is okay. It took eight months just for him just to be able to walk again. The computer is even older than him. It will take time.

Tonight there is not much he has accomplished, but for now, _it is enough. _

Artemis yawns, and moves back to the dusty window.

The night sky beckons.

He misses Mau. He misses the Moon Kingdom.

_He misses..._

…He doesn't know. He _can't_ know if she is alive. Still, he searches the night sky. He, with slitted eyes, looks through the eyehole of the rattling telescope and realigns it according to the radar. Looking for the box.

He cannot see it anymore.

Maybe it was only a piece of space junk, ejected out to float higher than the rest of humanity. Or maybe it is another slumberer like him, another bit of flotsam from the destruction of forgotten worlds. He reminds himself not to hope for too much.

Far away, hidden like the stars in the glow of day, crimson eyes crack open, just for a second. _Maybe...?_

But it is not yet time.

They close again, and Luna slumbers on among the stars.

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><p><strong>AN**: My tumblr name/contact place, if anyone is interested, is heartisakaleidoscope. I post sailor moon, sci-fi, and assorted other things. Feel free to talk to me. :)

**as always, READ AND REVIEW**!


	7. Whimsy : : : Request

'**Whimsy'**

REQUESTED BY "mamoruminako" (anon review)

**Words**: 1570

**Category**: AU/Romance

**Characters:** Mamoru, Minako

**Type: **oneshot

***PG for minor language

Kate-Le-Contrary

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><p><strong>There is a universe, an <em>alternate universe<em>, if you will, where one girl named Tsukino Usagi doesn't exist, and never has. **

_(Strangely enough, the only_ other_ difference is that the island of Hawaii in this universe is known as "Penguinea". And the Beatles never became famous.)_

Because Tsukino Usagi did not exist, neither had Princess Serenity.

Queen Serenity, therefore, had never employed any Sailor Senshi to look after her daughter. Earth wasn't scared of puny moon with no _Senshi Of Mass Destruction_ living upon it, and therefore no political tension existed between the planets.

At all.

Pluto became bored and took a nap outside of Time and Space, which ended well into the fifty-third century and felt like a whole of fifteen minutes to her. Sailor Saturn, a vaguely non-threatening girl, took up knitting and after a while sold her star-seed at auction after discovering no one on Saturn really cared if they had a senshi or not.

The other senshi mostly kept to themselves. They were princesses, and very secretive. No historical account exists of their lives.

Beryl, Endymion's childhood best friend, ended up owning a chicken ranch in one of the more warm areas of Elysion instead of going batshit crazy with jealousy and starting up a anarchy/rebel base in Greenland. The Shitennou spent most of their time playing poker and getting drunk with Endymion.

_Eventually_, Helios (of all people/pegasi!) got fed up with all the lack of interesting things going on, went batshit crazy, and killed everyone.

_Of course_, Saturn, who was knitting at the Gates of Time when she heard Earth exploding, was pissed that she hadn't gotten to end the world. That and Pluto was snoring loudly on her shoulder.

So she stole her starseed back, and reincarnated everyone for the heck of it.

.

.

.

.

Several thousand years later, a man called Mamoru sits, hunched forward and bored, in a plastic audience chair at Tokyo Star Emporium. He yawns, because it feels good to stretch his jaw muscles. He has been sitting here for two hours, the line of contestants just beginning to trickle to a close.

There is a crumpled list in his hand. He barely glances at the names.

His fellow talent scouts slump forward in a similar manner, and the pianist cracks his knuckles. Some days are rewarding. Some are not.

There is a redheaded girl, who sings something from a foreign musical. She sounds like the two cats that sometimes fight underneath the balcony of his apartment.

Mamoru looks at the ceiling instead of the paper in his hand.

"Thank you, number 88, Mio Kuroki," calls the announcer, monotone from the side.

He is grimacing and thinking of the tacky surface of the stage when the next pair of heels struts purposefully forward. He watches the orange pumps instead of the singer, thinking about how overheated he is.

"Mamoru! Give me your list!" hisses Samuel, the careless Australian intern. He hands the crinkled page over his shoulder and wipes the beading sweat from his forehead.

Now he is thinking about a shower, and reminding himself to water his plants when he gets home.

The announcer doesn't get a chance to say the next singer's name. The shadow of the girls' arm sweeps up to take the mic, and with the awful sound of feedback, swings the cord and handle up to her lips.

"Number 89," announces an exotic, crisp, rich British voice, drawing out the last syllable; "Mina." She flourishes the mic with gold-painted nails.

Mamoru feels the other talent critics with a sudden intensity. They're all looking up. He does the same, and his mouth nearly goes dry.

Her skimpy shirt displays a tie-dyed Union Jack, the leather jacket over it grungy and creaking. She shifts her weight, posing like a model. An awful blue miniskirt completes the ensemble, awful because it's so tight and Mamoru suddenly feels the heat even more, shifting uncomfortably. He reminds himself that prospective singers will do anything to influence the talent scouts. But he is a critic.

She sings, a somber, sad, heartfelt melody falling from ruby-lipsticked lips.

Mamoru feels everyone else lean forward. Maybe not another pointless day?

Her voice fills every corner of the auditorium, resounding through his skull. Her words, her tones send shivers down his spine.

He stares at her, focusing on her blue eyes, her golden hair. So familiar…

This one is doing very well.

Doing very well until she goes up into a high belt, and their lines of vision clash. She stutters, and he hears the disappointment come out from all the others in a unified sigh. She is still staring at him, and she gives him the most furious expression he has ever seen. Like it is his fault she has ruined the song. He has to look away, overcome with sudden guilt.

Viciously, the girl resumes her song, holding the same note longer and with more intensity and passion than before. Mamoru reminds himself that she failed to sing perfectly.

Most of the talent scouts stare, but no one claps. Instead, they murmur. It is a beautiful song—but ruined. They aren't allowed to clap for a ruined song.

Yet, she has a voice, a face, a way of walking and that bitter smile she flashes at them…they are impossible not to fall in love with.

His forehead wrinkles in concentration.

She could be…she_ is_ a_ goddess_.

The announcer doesn't even get a chance to signal her to leave. She bows, her voice suddenly filling the air with its richness.

"Thank you. I'm Mina—Minako Aino. _Damn._" Her voice cracks at the end, and as if reminded of her mistake, she starts to leave, sedately. But then she breaks into a run, and skids out of the Emporium door, orange heels pounding the marble.

"Next!" the announcer calls, and number 90 steps up to sing.

She is a decent singer, but number 103 gets the part.

Still, Mamoru doesn't forget her name.

He waters his plants. "Number 89," he says that night to his rosebush and the street fifteen stories below him; "Minako Aino."

He says it, just to feel the name on his tongue.

.

.

.

.

They meet near a bar three years later, and Mamoru always remembers that it is _near_ a bar he meets her, not _in_ a bar. No lasting relationship was ever formed in a bar, he thinks.

It is like how she talks about her parents, wryly. "Alcohol is no basis for a relationship. They split when the beer ran out."

No, they meet for the second time while he is seated on a park bench, as she stares out on a field of lilies. He is amazed he recalls her face, and she hasn't even turned to look at him when she says it.

"I remember you," comes that British accent, and he jumps. It as if he has heard it in his dreams, which he might very well have. He sometimes dreams of people he has met once or twice, probably because he has few real friends who still live close enough to visit regularly.

She turns, and the world stops. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

"You are the critic who made me mess up. I was going to be an idol, but I couldn't afford the entrance fee to any more_ real_ auditions. That was my last chance."

He wonders if this is his last chance. He's never done a truly wondrous thing in his life before, and here is a chance.

It is fly whimsy.

He does something entirely against his nature. After all, his life and job are all about saying a thousand 'no's' for every 'yes'. He is only good at criticism, not reassurance. But maybe this is the thousandth time. Maybe this is the yes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" comes his voice, quiet. He could never be a singer, not with his timid voice.

She stands there, stunned. Mamoru notices her shoes are the same ones—but scuffed with age and wear.

She slides next to him.

"Yes."

.

.

.

.

They find out in another year that they had past lives, and wonder if they are the only ones who ever remembered. It makes them feel special, closer.

Venus is the Earth's twin planet. He feels himself appreciating her more and more as she laughs about living in a floating castle and how her parents in both lives were terrible.

"My mum was English, and my dad was Japanese and mad as a hatter. Yep, he sure got angry easily. Almost as often as she got drunk." She gestures to the bar across the street, as they sit at their bench.

He loves her for her dreaminess, and her sheer humor. He isn't that good with humor, so it is a welcome break from his self-deprecation. She says things sometimes that are unintentionally funny.

He is a music critic, and books another audition for her with a rival company.

This time, he sits in the audience, tense, as nothing but an audience member. No part in deciding her fate. This time, when their gaze meets, her voice becomes stronger, rather than shattering. This time, she gets the part, and he becomes the boyfriend of the most famous singer in Japan. They go on tours across the world.

It is that one 'yes' in a thousand 'no's'. It is them. It is nothing but whimsy.

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><p>.<p>

A/N: HOLY COW THIS IS LONG!

Thanks to **mamoruminako** (who requested)

and

**sm fan**, who reviewed.

Also, thanks for requesting! It gives me motivation and ideas, though this took a day or two to think up (I've never really thought about Mamoru/Minako together.)

-Kate


	8. Horror Story, Part II: Spasm

_Disclaimer:_Sailor Moon is owned by Naoko Takeuchi and partially by Kodansha and Toei Animation.

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><p><strong>'Horror Story, Part II: Spasm'<strong>

Words: 439

**Category**: Horror, Drama, Suspense

**Characters:** Sailor Venus/Minako Aino, Luna, Artemis, Sailor Mars/Rei Hino

**Type: **drabble

It helps to have read the first part.

Kate-Le-Contrary

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><p>Artemis swore when Mars swung to land too close to him. Both of her heels were broken, the red toes jutting awkwardly towards the smoky sky.<p>

I swore as well when I saw her.

"Artemis! Get away!" came my raspy, low meow. All the smoke had affected even my alien lungs after a while.

She had been missing a week. Every time we heard about a new fire on Venus' old licensed police scanner, Mars had already disappeared from the scene and we could only watch as the unnatural fire burnt whatever the latest target was. Half of Juuban was under military control, at this point. I could still hear the words of long-dead Jadeite.

"_Sailor Moon…this city will__** burn**__."_

Maybe not a threat. Maybe a prediction, as he showed us his dreadful illusion.

...

We were keeping Mars contained for close observation when it all went to hell—she escaped from the shrine—or, what was left of the shrine. Mercury never even got to analyze her properly. Now poor Mercury was working overtime, doing what she could to put out the flames with her _Spray_ before the cops arrived with their press and their photographers.

Never thought I'd see a day where her attacks were so needed.

More than Moon's. Moon was on duty with Jupiter, scouring the city for Mars. But Mars had found us first. She leaned enough out of the shadows, shaking as she tripped forward and into the streetlight.

Her eyes were sunken. Hollow. Burnt out. Gloves tattered, mere remnants on cindered nails. Her fuku and hair—made crisp and smelly with tips that smoldered slowly, protected as they were from fire by the transformation. She looked like a zombie. A skeleton.

The girl once known as Rei Hino, a shrine maiden, advanced towards us. Her body held up like a puppet on strings.

We were still, frightened she might return and roast us.

But then, with another spasm, she leapt out of sight. Blocks away, a building burnt behind her. Artemis tapped on his communicator slowly, sending the location to Mercury.

The shrieks and yells in the burning summer air carried with it not only ash but also the tired Sailor Venus.

"Jupiter," she gasped, hunching forward, "Jupiter's gone. Her arm—the injured one—started moving by itself. Before we could call Mercury, she was gone. Right out the window. Wasn't even fully dressed—shoes off and everything."

And now, Jupiter had disappeared.

In her hand, Venus held out something small. Earrings. Rose earrings.

"Her arm was moving by itself?" came Artemis' horrified query. "Are you sure, Mina?"

"Yeah." She exhaled. "Sort of spasming."

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><p><strong>AN:** Two uploads in a day! Now if only I can get some reviews, as well... (HINT.)

YEAH! FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO DO PROPER LINE BREAKS!

thanks to

**Bin82501** and

**C.p.f syndrome**

for reviewing the last chapter!


	9. Improbability

'**Improbability'**

**Words**: ~461

**Category**: General/Character Introspective

**Characters:** Setsuna Meioh/Sailor Pluto/Trista Meioh

**Type: **drabble

Kate-Le-Contrary

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><p>.<p>

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She can count the impossibilities in this second on her fingertips.

Like the dying gold rays of the sun that creeps behind the skyline, they pierce at her. She is the cold, cold statue, melting as time ticks forwards and only forwards.

There she stands, her soul naked and exposed as a newborn and easily extinguished like the rest of them. Equals. She has a felted plaid suit set covering her, unfamiliar and coarser than her battle fuku.

She feels accused, Time the accuser. Never before has she…_never...  
><em>

And _that _is saying something. She has seen many 'never's, many 'could-have's and 'might-be's. She feels guilty. This is a world she is supposed to watch quietly, not one she is supposed to _join._

This is taboo.

...But, but, _but_ the hot summer air is raw on her skin, her eyes new and shocked and _oh, so alive. _

_Not a statue. _There is an internal clock ticking inside of her now, one that beats with her mostly-partly-maybe-human heart, bursting out with her own set of possibilities, which she feels fading away from her senses the more she tries to feel them.

_No one should know their own future_, she thinks contemplatively.

Her heart lurches forward, and she is no longer a statue but physics and motion and the ability to move forward. Terrified at the sensation, she feels for the star seed locked deep within her, and once realizing it is still nestled at her core, gives a pause that for the first time does not encompass all of eternity in length. Still a guardian—but free to enter life. For the first time the words _'fast_' and '_slow'_ are relative to her.

As smile spreads over her sun-warmed lips. Impossibilities are sometimes merely improbabilities, it seems.

She licks her lips and sighs, thinking of what she would most like to do, more than anything she has ever watched anyone do.

What is breaking one more taboo, anyway?

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.

.

.

So she goes out and buys a popsicle from a street vendor before the sun is completely set, one that she knows someone else was supposed to ingest, and eats it with this body that obeys the ebbs and currents of time. For the first time, she moves with time, letting the river's flow drag her far from the shore she stood on for so long.

Against her instincts, she twirls in the twilight giddily, gaining gawks from a teenage couple she nearly falls into—because, of course, she is wearing a suit set, and looks like a teacher or a fashion designer or, because she probably only looks about twenty, a science intern.

…_intern…_

She no longer the forgotten constant but _like them_, a billion billion trillion zillion choices and worlds before her. And when Setsuna Meioh rises to join the others, she is no longer a still pause, but motion itself.

.

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><p>Thanks for reading! Sorry for no update in a few weeks, but...<em>midterms.<em> Bleargh. As always, please review... and requests are always welcome. (Thank you reviewers for last chappie!)

-Kate


	10. Like Clockwork : : : Request

**'Like Clockwork'**

.

.**  
><strong>

**~REQUESTED BY "C.p.f syndrome" (anon review)**

**Words**: 2480

**Category**: Mystery/Horror/Sci-fi/AU-ish/Angst/Romance (one-sided, obviously)

**Characters:** Dimande, Saphir, Neo-Queen Serenity, Sailor Moon, Sailor Pluto

**Type: **oneshot

Kate-Le-Contrary

'

PG for thematic elements, mention of drug use, and character death. Sailor Moon is not in any way mine.

.

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><p>The new boy they found wandering the streets last week is staring in the crib again. He is thinking that something is oddly familiar, strangely familiar about that hair. The way it falls, maybe. He tells himself it is nothing. Nevertheless, the shrill cries of the sick baby awaken him every night, and he stares and stares.<p>

_Your little brother, _his mind supplies, but something isn't right that isn't about his brother. Well, not really his brother. Brother is just a label because neither of them seems to belong to anyone, and the Momma has taken the both of them in.

The Momma likes his looks, she says. And the baby is her dead sister's, so it is by all rights _hers_ now. He doesn't mind this.

At least, not until the child in the crib starts keening. It is awful. It sounds like someone dying, which he has never heard before—but he still thinks it sounds like someone dying.

And there is a rusty screw in his brain, struggling against the rest of him as all the rest of the clockwork that is _him_ moves about its business. No matter how many times the rest of his thoughts struggle and grind against it, there is that one motionless part of him he can't change, can't feel, can't get past. But he only feels that sensation when he looks at the baby every night, when hears that repetitive _clicking_ in his brain, when he knows that something is horribly, irreversibly, terribly _wrong._

_.  
><em>

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><em>

_.  
><em>

"But my coat has nothing but holes in it!" his little brother protested petulantly. The Momma gave Saphir a smack on the bum, pushing the two young brothers out onto the dawn-time streets of Neo-Tokyo.

The Momma's harsh, stilted accent rung out onto the silent street, the white-blonde hair of an albino curling around her soft cheekbones and pooling in her brocaded scarf as she surveyed the alley coldly.

"Don't be seen. Be back soon, but not too soon," she said in her too-thick voice, and the door took two bangs to close properly.

The two boys stared out at the cold sky above them, because one always needs to look out for the weather first in the red-light district. Neither boy wanted to be caught in a downpour.

Saphir pushed both clammy cheeks, pale in the cold, against Dimande's side so that only his uncovered hair was visible.

He thought that Saphir's brother's tight black curls fell too long. The boy needed a haircut, and soon so as not to be mistaken for a girl.

Girls were kidnapped more often, as the Momma often reminded the pair.

They rambled along the alleyway together, staying close for warmth and protection and sticking into the shadows. There wasn't much of them to be seen—Saphir's mass was mostly caused by his coat; Dimande was gangly and thin, thin from not enough food and the weather and feeding Moko, Saphir's kitten.

The Momma didn't know about Moko. She would have drowned him. But there were a lot of things the Momma didn't know about, that Dimande had to intention of revealing. Like Dimande's little side trips to the fishmongers and along the swaying aisles of docks, easy to sneak along and easier to run away from when someone spotted him snatching a fish. He was very secretive to achieve his ends.

But they were hungry, and Dimande had a sinking feeling Saphir was going to become sick if he didn't keep him better fed.

"Hey, you two!" a thuggish-looking man across the road started to zig-zag towards them, doped beyond reason. The two young boys froze in their tracks, and it was only urgent Dimande's tugging that pulled Saphir from where his feet had stopped.

The two ran into another alley, but clumping bootsteps followed.

Dimande's heart was a deer's quick pulse as he moved closer to the fusion-crystal fence that divided the red-light district from Neo-Tokyo Proper.

There—a hole, small enough for him to push through. The rough grating scraped his ribs, and he yanked his brother after him mercilessly. The coat wouldn't budge. It was too thick—too rich. That druggie had assumed they were rich kids, easy prey. Dimande's icy fingers scrambled for the buttons and ripped the heavy material off Saphir.

Saphir came through the hole, shivering but somehow not chafed by the sharp edges of the hole. On the other side, back in red-light, the puffy blue coat lay under gathering snow.

Dimande pulled Saphir away from the fence and the stoned, wheedling cries of the man behind.

It was snowing, and they were in Neo-Tokyo. Two impossible things—although snowing was slightly less impossible. The Earth's weather had been acting up for a while.

Dimande spat a warning to his brother. "Next time, listen to the Momma and don't wear some pity-present your Benefactor got you."

His brother, who almost never spoke very loud, whispered back something.

"If I had time to change, I would."

For some reason, the words stuck Dimande, hard. Something felt very wrong about all this, and it wasn't just Neo-Tokyo or the snow. He bit his lip, and there it fell, a drop of blood on the snow.

"C'mon. Let's see what Neo-Tokyo has to offer."

And the first corner he rounded, the first store window he came to, the first time he had been in Neo-Tokyo, was the first time he saw her face. He saw her on the silver news-screen, which played a recording of the Neo-Queen Serenity making a speech.

But he didn't know who or what at the time, just that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was so mesmerized with her face that it was only the surprise of his younger brother's voice that made him look away.

"That's not very nice," Saphir piped up, pointing a little further above his head.

There, taped to the window—a propaganda poster with the heading ALIENS MUST NOT REIN. Below the words, her face stared back in dead ink, a large red X through it.

It seemed to Dimande that a phantom whisper went through his head. And this time, it was harder for him to turn away.

_.  
><em>

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><em>

_._

When he was seventeen and the Momma had made enough money to move, Neo-Queen Serenity came knocking on the Momma's apartment door, sans guards and with a sudden hush.

He was quickly rushed into the kitchen and locked there by the Momma. There was a crack in the wall, so he and Saphir peered out of it and at their monarch, who seemed to be wearing some sort of half-hearted disguise. She looked no older than him, due to the influence of the Silver Crystal. Some sort of glow seemed to surround her…inhuman and silvery.

"Senora Gem," came a lilting, issued from those pink lips. Dimande was mesmerized—he had never seen her in person. "I have heard that you know most of all about the planet Nemesis, if I am informed correctly."

The Momma nodded her head quickly, and ushered the Neo-Queen to a half-rotted chair.

"I lived there, once," the Momma sighed in her heavy accent, "it was beautiful, at one point in time. It was alive."

Serenity pursed her lips, and Dimande watched the movement with awe at how anyone could be so lovely. "We at the court were told recently that it has been used as a banishment point."

The Momma gave a grimace and an affirmative.

Dimande didn't pay attention to anything else until Serenity took her final step out of the door. He was, from that moment, infatuated.

But something inside him besides his heartstrings jolted painfully.

_.  
><em>

_###  
><em>

_._

He joined the Resistance at twenty, once he had seen enough of corrupt local governments and couldn't believe that Neo-Queen Serenity had any notion of what was going on around the Earth. Otherwise, The Momma wouldn't have been killed that night. And the Neo-Queen, the beautiful Neo-Queen wouldn't have married…_him_. Dimande hated _him, _because surely he couldn't teach Serenity anything about how real life worked or the street or what it's like to have the closest thing you have to a mother murdered just because of a one-time association with the government.

When Dimande thought about it, killing the Neo-King would be a favor to her.

Still, Saphir gave him grief about it, whining quietly—if it could be called that—that 'the Momma wouldn't want this'.

Dimande's voice was cold and hard, just like Momma's when she had been alive—but without the accent. "I have done this for us, Saphir. Surely you understand. "

A cold chill of fear shot strangely through a part of Saphir's mind, and he suddenly felt dizzy. "Yes, this is the best for us," he muttered in reply.

And still, Saphir followed him. They did everything together, after all.

_.  
><em>

_###  
><em>

_._

An angel stood before him on the slip of paper, condemning him to hell.

Never again, living in Crystal Tokyo (that was what it was called now, no longer _Neo-Tokyo_). Never again, seeing her accusatory face.

He stared at the newspaper clipping in his hand, clenched it and crushed it into a tiny ball. Then he unfolded it again to stare at her features.

Banished. A planet called _Nemesis_, of all things. Her fault. All hers. Cruel, cruel face. Though she had nothing to do with the sentencing, though she knew _nothing_ of him, the government _was hers._

The one-way teleport echoed hollowly around him, and his brother stared hopelessly ahead at it.

At the last second, they clutched hands together, because they would always, always be brothers. Then the guards pushed and Saphir went first, not for the last time.

Dimande watched with brother dissolve away from Earth. He could feel himself tensing up as he walked forward, choosing to walk ahead. The guards didn't seem to care. If he went easy, good for them.

He held the newspaper clipping up again, and because it couldn't come with him it was the last he saw of planet earth; her face staring up at him from as he was banished away forever.

But Dimande remembered he had secret plans like always and would build this planet up. He would become a leader there for the Resistance like he was on Earth, and make Nemesis a planet to be reckoned with.

He did just that.

It was not so much Dimande's prodding and taunts that sent the inhabitants of Nemesis so against Earth. The acidic atmosphere and unholy stones that clattered without reason and lack of vegetation or life or the non-light of the Black Moon was what did them in.

So that was what he called them, his followers. Black Moon Clan. He individually named them, each like the Momma had for him and Saphir, in some twisted form of remembrance. Then, out of the very void blackness of Nemesis or perhaps the black space beyond came his greatest helper, a Wiseman who addressed him rightfully as Prince, for that was what he was.

The time was drawing near; Dimande could feel it.

His brother didn't sink into either the widespread depression of the passive or enraged frenzy of the vengeful Clan, but rather tinkered with what little the early settlers here had left behind when they succumbed to the slow death brought by starvation or whatever had done them in on this god-forsaken rock.

And soon, a time ship was built.

Dimande had always known Saphir was a genius, even when he muttered about timeloops and repercussions and generating time anomalies and _who-knows-what_…

"We could even get you that Queen, with the power I give to you... and a time-ship. We can attack from both the present time and the past," Wiseman said, measuring each word carefully.

And with those words, Dimande felt that familiar disjointed hitch in the ticking mechanism of his mind. And he ignored it.

_.  
><em>

_###  
><em>

_._

"If I had time to change, I would." He choked as the dark energy spread within him. He managed a few more words but blacked out, Sailor Moon staring down at him as he died.

An explosion. Silence. Then, the dark weight lifted from him. Clean. Alive. He gave a breath, and his eyes opened.

Double take. There in front of him sat a much older woman—though she hardly looked a day aged. Neo-Queen Serenity. And Sailor Pluto. Their eyebrows were both knit with worry. "I thought I could save him. Somehow, like _it_ did with those four sisters. But I never had the chance too…" the Queen trailed off.

"I can make his body regress to childhood, if I do this right," the holographic Pluto said, "his memories, gone with the age-compression and travel through space-time. The only problem is that I can't predict when or where he will be thrown in time or space to have his new life."

"Do it, if it is the only way. I will give him that time he wanted to change, a second chance. I was gifted with so many second chances, after all..." Neo-Queen Serenity whispered, her voice a little strange and painful.

The ticking began, and it was Serenity pacing the floor. Such a familiar sound—like the one he heard in the back of his mind sometimes…

Then Sailor Pluto lifted a strange orb, and it all blurred…

The clockwork piece of blankness, snapping and twingeing into renewed existence.

Wait a minute. That part of himself had _already_ _been there._

Since _always._

_No, _he wanted to scream. _Not again._

_.  
><em>

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><em>

__._  
><em>

The day is November fifth, the universal day for revolutions, and Dimande, "the Prince" of the Resistance, wonders about how best this whole thing should be carried out. Then he sees a poster of _her_, and his mind is sidetracked.

There is one legend in particular that he, as the new leader of the Resistance, scoffs at regularly… about Neo-Queen Serenity. That her life now is_ not_ her second reincarnation as everyone claims. That she died and died and died over and over in a pattern, a wheel, a clockwork machine, throughout all history—until finally she _forced _all the pieces to snap together perfectly and she broke free from her own fate, and that this utopia was the result of that. He could imagine Serenity beating on the walls of fate like Athena on Zeus' head, gorgeous blue eyes flaring and ready to finally spring free with a Silver Crystal in one hand and the scales of Lady Justice in the other. _Justice, indeed._ And breaking free of fate! What a notion. There is no such thing as fate. There is only control, manipulation, and desires. Like how he desires Serenity… Nope, no fate for him.

Something catches in the back of his mind at that thought, like a little piece of _something_, jamming the mechanism.

He shrugs it off and walks onwards.

.

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><p>It's been such a while since I saw Sailor Moon R (or read that part of the manga) that I spent the weekend refreshing a little bit and trying to remember how the heck Dimande died. Still haven't got formatting on this site down pat, and I think I might have a tense error in there I missed since I messed with them so much. Wow! So much serious fic recently! (I wanted this to be a comedy piece at first...but, well.) Maybe some fluffy UsagiMamoru next? Maybe? Or maybe I'll make good on that promise of a 'western' in the summary. Perhaps I'll even finish the title drabble! (Le gasp). Hint: reviews influence me.

Anyway, thanks to **C.p.f syndrome** for requesting (I hope this is satisfactory/what you were looking for) and** James Birdsong** for the comment. It really makes my day to see a review notice. ;D

As always, don't be a stranger-review! And if you don't want to/can't be bothered, have fun reading anyway.

-Kate


	11. Horror Story, Part III: Soak

_Disclaimer:_ Sailor Moon is owned by Naoko Takeuchi and partially by Kodansha and Toei Animation.

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><p><strong>"Horror Story, Part III: Soak"<strong>

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Words: ~770

Category: Drama, Suspense, Humor

Characters: Inner Senshi, Yuuichirou, Grandpa Hino, Luna, Artemis, Setsuna

Type: conclusion

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Kate-Le-Contrary

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><p>.<p>

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The laws of entropy state that matter ultimately falls into a state of chaos.

What they don't mention is just how rapidly it happens.

Already, an ice-encrusted Mars was slowly melting, the sheets of ice shivering at the edges with melting, hot, supernova-red-gold. First, her hands came through, dripping with water droplets the size of large beads that sizzled at the ends of her fragmented, glowing gloves.

And next to her, Jupiter, retching and coughing, sparks crackling into the open air and back to her like a swarm of zinging electric insects.

Artemis and Mercury and I stared into Jupiter's eyes, mostly because her eyes were still alive, still with us—also, gauging when she would strike. They burnt dimly, twin emerald flames just clinging on to the edge of sanity.

She was a senshi possessed. None of the rest of her was under her control—or it was, just barely. With all her strength, she struggled to stay still—though her body was wracked with spasms. A few hours before, she had lost control of her mouth and couldn't communicate with us anymore. Not that we could have spoken much, with Mars bounding behind us in an inhuman, unnatural motion. And we had only been blessed by the stars by the fact that Mercury had followed close behind Mars' flaming path. In a second, the panting, sweating senshi had her hands in front of her chest in what looked like a defensive, protective gesture. In another, the being once known as Rei Hino was coated in a five-inch-thick layer of solid sub-artic hoarfrost.

We were just as paralyzed as Mars. Jupiter was crashing, crashing down inside her own eyes—and all there was to do was watch and hope against insane hope there was somewhat of herself left in her mind.

By now, Mars had one foot free, and was twisting against the diamond-sharp rime, cutting into it to get loose. Just like an animal caught in a trap—chewing a leg off just to be free. In another second, we would have to run. As soon as Jupiter lost the battle inside her mind, she would attack us as well.

I wanted to think it was almost better that we couldn't hear her now—now that she had no motor control. No more screams, after all. But this was worse. Her eyes were nothing but hollow pain, staring at us…and fading.

We stayed with her until the end, until her eyes became hollow black pits.

Mars had succeeded in carving herself free with her fire.

They both lunged, and as there was nothing else to do, we ran.

I didn't think my muscles had ever hurt so much—not even when they had been aching and atrophied from cryogenic hibernation, not even when I struggled to take my first steps after centuries and centuries, before proper muscle tissue regeneration. Yep, it hurt.

We ran to the temple. There, the old and wise priest that was Mr. Hino sat, waiting with his head in his hands. He looked up dramatically as we approached.

"I didn't want to have to do this," he spoke solidly. "But it must be done! Yuuichirou!" he bellowed, and dust rose up with his hand. A buff young man—an insanely hot young man—ran up to the old sage's feet.

"Yes, master?"

"You must do all I have taught you! In my old age, I have imparted upon you the great secret to save everyone, which you will only accomplish with the help of Sailor Moon!" Thunder crackled in the sky as the handsome Yuuichirou looked towards the west, and the camera panned up…

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.

.

.

Rei snorted her coke out her nose, and Makoto unfortunately was hit with the brunt of the soda attack.

"Hey!" Minako exclaimed, clutching her own soda. "I'm still trying to watch the movie!" and she resumed watching with a glazed, sappy smile and popcorn.

Ami looked at her disbelievingly, and shifted quite suddenly in her seat because her butt had started to cramp.

Usagi just sat there, cackling as tears streamed down her face.

On the screen, the representation of Yuuichirou was fighting Mars in a steamy alleyway, and the scene was starting to turn steamy as well.

"Rei…" the onscreen Yuuichirou panted as he was punched mercilessly. "Don't do this…I love you!" another kick to the guts.

"REI!" he bellowed, and the Rei in the theater, who had just stopped hyperventilating and grunting from the carbonated beverage up her nose, turned her head up in instant reaction.

And bristled.

"They can't show that!" she screeched, standing up and blocking the other girls from seeing the kiss that was happening larger-than-life behind her. Minako peeked out from behind Rei's arms and watched appreciatively. The Jupiter behind Mars watched jealously as the two in the alley smooched away, and got to her feet, a ball of energy in her hand.

"That doesn't even make any sense" Ami observed. "Makoto isn't_ that_ crazed for a boyfriend…"

Makoto, always a fast thinker on her feet, stopping wringing her ponytail out and got on her feet.

"Enough is enough. We're leaving," and with that, she pulled everyone sharply to stand and herded them out of the row.

Rei continued to cuss everyone and their poodle out the entire way to the emergency exit.

"Stupid cosplayers," one woman in the audience muttered. "Being loud and distracting and leaving in the middle of a show." Ami heard, and her entire face flushed with embarrassment.

Usagi was clutching onto the stone-faced Makoto's shoulder and hooting with laughter as they stepped into the lobby.

Rei finally stopped swearing long enough to notice something was wrong. "Wait a moment…where's Minako?" she asked.

Makoto snapped. "Ami, go get her!" she said with a twitching eye, and Ami rushed off with a mortified why-me look on her face. But she would rather go back into that theater than face Makoto's wrath.

"Was it good?" Setsuna smirked and looked up from the 'Time' magazine she was reading.

Makoto just gave her an icy glance. "Next time you take us to an alternate universe, make sure it's one where _you_ didn't sell us out to Hollywood."

Usagi had finally, _finally_ stopped laughing enough to answer Setsuna's question. "Well, the special effects were good—"

"—good for 1914, maybe!" Rei interjected angrily, and Usagi ploughed onwards with a straight face.

"And I was just so glad at first that they didn't focus much on me. Luna's constant voice-overs were a bit much, though. It's like the filmmakers couldn't get over the fact they had a talking cat to work with! I mean; what a horror story! It was basically a Godzilla film without Godzilla and a sexy ninja version of Yuuichirrouuuu…" and she burst into peals of laughter again.

Rei looked on the verge of tears.

"Awwww." Minako complained half-miserably as a once-again red-faced Ami lead her out into the lobby. "Sailor Pluto had just appeared and was kissing the brains out of the brainwashed Endymion, whom she secretly loved…they had just gotten engaged!" she said with a dreamy sigh.

"WHAT?" Setsuna's face was suddenly a shade to rival beets. "We need to go now," she spoke hurriedly, and the six of them vanished without a sound.

Well, except for the shriek from Rei as Minako tripped forward during the trans-dimensional teleportation and emptied her soda over Rei's head.

Some soda, a universe away from its cup, soaked into the lobby carpet, and all was again sane.

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><p>So...basically last time I updated it loaded the wrong chapter. One which had never been edited and needed some severe TLC. (And that I didn't think I would post here. Ever. At all.) Sorry 'bout that...<p>

But anyway, here's the conclusion to the 'Horror Story' miniseries. I don't even know where this one was going. It was insane to write and...well...glad it's over. Next, I'm going to write that Western I've been promising in the summary. And if anyone out there is wondering about the title and where the heck _that comes in_...stay tuned.

As always,

-Kate


	12. On Some Days, It Rains

**'On Some Days, It Rains'**

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**Words:** 3053

**Category:** family, hurt/comfort, romance, introspective

**Characters:** Ami Mizuno, Saeko Mizuno, 'Mr. Mizuno'

**Type:** oneshot

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Kate-Le-Contrary disclaims all characters and names as they are property of those affiliated in the production of all versions of Sailor Moon, such as Kodansha, Naoko Takeuchi, Toei, etc.

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><p>.<p>

The harsh light of a stormy-bright sky trickled down to reflect off of humming rooftop radiators. In response, her bare feet padded out of the shadows of the high-rise apartment and onto the warmed cement balcony_. (Five minutes, three seconds.)_

Mizuno Ami could tell when it would rain. Not specifically what the weather was like, or how long it would stay, but she could feel the water vapor rising up in the air like prayers to meet the grey and blue and yellow heat of the open sky. Breezes carved along; curling her dark, sweat-dampened hair around her ears and whispering around the edges of skyscrapers; her yellowed sundress fluttered in the calm before the storm. _(Two minutes, forty-five seconds.) _Through the sliding glass door she left open, the corners of an open book's pages wafted up. With the rising humidity, she sensed the ink of wet words evaporating off the pages and into the air.

It was a Saturday. Dr. Mizuno was working, as usual. Ami was alone, and reading foreign literature even though it was the middle of summer and she didn't need to be studying. Well, any more than usual.

No reason to read and read and not go outside, though. Ami was tired, and the texts inside and scribbled notes could wait for another, darker, not-rainy day. It _would_ rain today, in just an hour or so, and she wanted to be outside to smell the dust rising from city roads and hear the pavement hissing into steam when warm rainwater hit concrete. And Mina and Mako would be happy to splash through puddles with her. She was in a good mood, an unusual mood, today. _(One minute, fifty-one seconds.)_

This day, with its feathered, dappled clouds, was the day when Mizuno Ami opened the door and saw a face she had never seen outside of a photograph. It was the day when she met, for the first time, her father.

She didn't know that yet. In another eighty-four seconds, after she slipped her shoes on and went across the floor, stooping to pick up a medical textbook, she would see him. _(Eighty-three seconds.)_ After she walked towards the kitchen, and pulled some thing from the fridge for a snack, she would see him. Soon_. (Thirty-two seconds.)_ And he hadn't come to visit her mother. He would see her. _(Eight seconds.)_

_.  
><em>

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><p><em>.<br>_

_.  
><em>

It is the seventies. The almost-foreign girl with flowers in her hair and the stance of an unsteady gyaru blows into his wet town one day in September, and he at once falls in love with her and her slim fingers on the broken samisen's two strings. She clutches her big leaf-stitched bag filled with a plethora of odd-and-end, half-working instruments the same way he carries his secret portfolio and crinkling horsehair brushes with their short ferrules. They talk for five minutes everyday as she plucks at a crudely hand-painted violin (pretending it is a Stradivarius?) and sits on the bench outside the hospital. He, in his starched white collar, remarks on the paint job, and shows her the brushes hidden in his briefcase. And that is when they open their mouths properly and _really_ speak. She is unbearably clever, clearly well-educated, and from San Francisco; before that she had been from some little place neither near nor far from Ehime, his birthplace. So, she really can't be called a _stranger_, right?Together, they sit in city parks and watch American westerns through storefront windows. She recalls the moon landing and remarks on her desire to travel out among the stars and away from whatever her unspoken past holds. He, the man-at-home, the father's-son, gives up his foundling job as a surgeon—the only thing he brings (the _only thing_) is the smile tucked in his pocket and enough paper to paint her face upon for many days. They travel, at her mere indication, to simply _everywhere_, her with her fast short-heeled feet tugging him along from city to village to town, tugging until he finally tugs them both into a little misplaced Catholic chapel somewhere along the coast of India. They almost elope, except for the witness—a puppy stray she had picked up somewhere in Cairo watching them and wagging his tail as the thick-accented priest gives the pair leave to kiss. He paints her face as her feet trail in the river water, the puppy wrapped up in a sari by her left knee. Delicate landscapes they have seen in their journeys swirl around her belongings—a sunset on her flute, an island on her guitar, mountains and rivers curving the round brassy belly of some nameless musical invention of hers which might have once only been a bent sax and some string. Then it is back to their home country in a whirlwind of festival seasons—Tanabata, and the floating lanterns of Obon. Because, of course, he has grown to love the shapes of her face and now wishes to paint that marvelous feature in the traditional Japanese style among the landscapes of his homeland. She stands still for his paintings for a very long time; long enough that someone jokingly suggests he 'build a house around that statue standing over there'. They decide it is worth a try—and after all, the open road is always waiting, isn't it? So, they find enough money from his other paintings (his father had died but he hasn't inherited much from the disappointed old fellow), those that are _not of her _(he saves those) and she disappears sometimes and reappears quickly with a mysterious check 'from my relatives'. Once, she comes back home to their shabby-but-near-the-park apartment and her taut face tells him far more than the thin unmarked envelope she murders with her close-bitten fingernails.

He sees her when she reads the letter, and the ghost of something cold and unfamiliar skates around the edges of her face that is sadder to him than broken flutes she no longer lugs around on every citywide meander they take. This, she tells him when he asks, is because she is carrying something else now. He has still not asked what she means—she says it with a grimness that tends to line her face every so often in some early-morning moment. But then again, there are some old burdens of the past that fall upon her shoulders sometimes when she peers into the streetlight-soaked night. Perhaps it is one of those. She is silent as to the relatives that send her money. One night, while he is painting her (for the last time) she grows so, so quiet (she usually tosses her head and laughs and won't _stay still_), and he realizes she is reading an old medical textbook he had left behind with his old now-dead father. In fact, she hardly seems to know he is painting her. This becomes clear when she snaps the book closed and stands up. "You know, the day I met you, I was looking for an internship to supplement my graduation from med school. And there you were, unhappy with your life, and I thought: maybe I can have a happier life than that. So I never did graduate." This is when he realizes, with a sinking, overpowering something-must-be-wrong feeling, that he has not noticed her accumulating stacks of medical textbooks and hours spent away from the home, or the bills that occasionally come from strange things—practical examining tests? obstetricians?—while he is out capturing a sunset and imagining the blur of her reflection in the lake water.

His life is changed forever with her next words, spoken bitterly as she observes the shock on his face. "You weren't expecting this? You didn't _know, _you mean? All these months, and never once…" a sharp, pained laugh; "I need the funds to become a doctor, which I can only get from my parents if we…separate. They disowned me, you know. Completely furious. Besmirching family honor and all that by never graduating and eloping somewhere off the map. They say there can't be any distractions if I'm to _earn from them_ sufficient cash for graduation."

The look of utter terror and shock on his face stops her for a moment, and her voice softens in a way that makes what she says next that much more shocking.

"But it's for the baby, you know. I need to support her even if you _won't_."

She is going on about how much she needs to stay in one place now, and how _all that was a phase in my life_, and he barely hears it. It is funny how much they had to say in all the time they knew each other—about organic chemistry and foreign economics, the fastest breed of crocodile, Romantic-era poets and the morals that defined their beliefs and thoughts. They had queried each other about eternity and aliens and religion and politics and the history of Lipizzaner horses in Austria with the air of the well-informed as they paraded around in the apparel of the latest country they were in; but, for all their secret love codes in trigonometry he had never asked her the right questions. He feels like Humphrey Bogart in _Casablanca. _He is but some passing fancy, a short-term love, and her true love is her family's wishes and the unfinished diploma that she, as a once-dedicated student, must have thought was dead without the blessing of her family's _conditional_ funding. It hurts that she has never trusted him with the fact that because of _him, _she was disowned—that she _didn't_ _tell him she was pregnant_. It hurts badly.

"But it will only be for a while. You can get your old job back, and we can even work together in the same place. It won't be for that long."

"It wasn't a phase." He tells her entreatingly. It wasn't some phase in his life that caused him to fall in love with her.

"What?" she says, confused.

"It wasn't a phase," he repeats, and clarifies; "I am an artist now."

"Oh," she says, and static charges the silence between them—or perhaps that is merely the paintbrush staining the floor where he has dropped it. The bristles prickle up.

It is going to rain soon.

The divorce is finalized two months later. She is upset with him, and he is upset with her—that they didn't say enough, or the right things, to each other. There is too much fear between them now: his that _he_ was a fancy and she never loved him, hers that he will not at least stay with her as she expected him too. He must not have loved her; he won't stay to raise their child, to linger at her side as a shadow and remarry her as she expected when she can stand on her own two feet again as someone with a salary.

He has decided he will live somewhere on an island, and paint full-time for a living. Maybe the bustle of a far-away life will soften the stinging of the past, even ridden as it is with reminders.

On the last time he will ever go out or in the door of their—_her—_small apartment, he sees her old bag, and the faded contents within. He doesn't slip off his wedding band they bought in France.

Her battered samisen has lost all of its strings.

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><p>.<p>

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_(One year, two weeks, five days, nineteen minutes, zero-point-five seconds.)_

He wonders, sometimes, what her face looks like. Every year, on her birthday, he sends his daughter, _Ami Mizuno,_ a postcard—hand painted, with a short note and some small personal souvenir from wherever he is that week. There is a short letter, because he never knows quite what to say. He talks to her on the phone sometimes, but that is more often even shorter than the letters, because he really only calls to hear her voice and imagine her _that_ way, not so much to be the one _doing_ the speaking. Unfortunately, she seems to have inherited his quietness and hesitance to speak unless prompted magnificently. He wishes she had been more like her mother in that respect.

He wonders sometimes as to what she looks like.

One year he asks _her_ for a picture of Ami, but he doubts that her mother will send him anything. His intuition is correct. There has been silence, long silence, between them for years, and he doesn't expect that to change any time soon. From Ami's replies, often received months and months after the original send date, he assumes she is an intelligent girl. Why wouldn't she be, with her parents? It is clearly something she has inherited.

This makes him think about those old paintings of _her _in the back of his portfolio, stuffed there years and years ago. He brings the long-ago faces out, and studies them. Then, in the mirror, his own face, which has aged with him into the face of a man who is no longer young. He puts the painting next to his own face in the mirror.

He begins to sketch.

And once he starts, there are hundreds, _thousands _of possibilities.

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><p>.<p>

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_(Zero seconds.) _

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><p>.<p>

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On the day when Ami Mizuno, for the first time, met her father, it was threatening to do more than drizzle. She yawned and answered the small knock on the door, assuming it was probably one of the girls coming over. (Good. She could use a friend today.) When the door opened, she was met with a painted postcard, and a face she had only seen in a grainy photograph taken somewhere near Russia. He was, surprisingly to her, instantly recognizable—despite the fact that _he_ _wasn't looking at her_ she would recognize that painting style anywhere.

"Ami Mizuno?" came the man's voice, which was unexpectedly rough at the edges. It had been a while since they'd spoken on the phone. And well, he had mentioned he might be in the area 'soon' back then.

"That's me," she said, and he handed her the thick postcard with his free hand as his face tilted into a half-smile. He continued not to make eye contact, which was beyond strange.

"Father?" she questioned politely, and he nodded awkwardly, looking towards her stack of textbooks in the living room.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll make you some tea," she announced to fill the quiet.

Her father had presumably found her address and walked up the stairs, lugging a brown, weather-beaten portfolio—because in another instant he drew the case out from behind his side and began laying them all out for her to see. Her back turned to make the tea, and she glanced to look behind her on occasion

Ten…no, thirty…no…hundreds of faces, spread haphazard across the sofa and low table, some edging onto each other. He seemed to be showing her portraits—which was strange. From his letters and postcards she had always assumed he only painted landscapes.

"They were all wrong," he said while looking at her, and the sentence sounded like a sigh.

"What were?" she asked, smoothly bringing her father the cup of tea. He didn't seem to notice it, but instead stood staring at her face, studying it.

"The sketches," was his reply, and with a gasp she looked, _really looked_, at the faces surrounding her. Most were a near mirror—a hundred '_her's_ from alternate universes—some with the eyebrows she saw as belonging to her mother, which she lacked, or the nose of her father, which she did indeed possess.

"They were all guesses, something to do in my spare time." He sighed. "I suppose none of them were right."

Ami Mizuno stared at her father disbelievingly.

He asked her timidly. "Would you mind posing for me? You see; I haven't got a photo."

The look she gave him held even more incredulity in it. "You could have _asked!_" she said, and regretted saying it the moment she had. The man looked incredibly weary, after all, and his expression belied more than a little embarrassment. "But I'll gladly let you do one of me," came her smooth amendment.

Her father gave her a huge smile, and Ami found out with satisfaction he talked much more when working.

He held up the finished painting to her—_done in only an hour, quicker than she thought_—and she gave it a broad grin of approval. Her father glanced at his watch, and a brief frown touched the corner of his mouth.

"I need to go." He remarked sadly. "As is often the case. But I've very glad we got to talk, and that I've got a some real pictures of you now." In his hand, he held a small packet of photographs Ami had given him—her as a baby, her as a child, old vacations.

"Have you got somewhere to stay? You could stay here, of course. I'm sure mom—"

He cut her off. "No, I've got somewhere I need to be."

Ami wondered how many more years until she saw him again. "Are you going for a while, or staying around town?"

"I'll…see you again soon, alright, Ami?" he asked her nervously, and she gave him a beaming smile.

"And…do you want to stick around a bit and talk to mom when she gets home, or…?"

For a moment, the artist's face went blank, as his mind went somewhere further than Ami could track. Then his gaze returned to her face.

"One day, Saeko and I will talk, really _talk,_" he said with a half-smile, "…but not today," came his conclusion. It was the first time he had said _her_ name in years, so the man drew out each vowel once more under his breath; like an old smoker with punched-out lungs taking his first draw years after quitting.

Ami's eyebrows drew together for an instant—terrified that she had undone it all. But no.

He stepped around the stacks of almost-Ami faces on the floor and was gone with a slight quirk of his lips and bounce in his steps.

Ami was left with the accurate picture (and almost-accurate pictures) or herself, flapping around in the breeze that drifted in from the open window.

It began to rain.

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><p>Yes, I'm quite aware it has been eons since I last time: this has been done since about April. I just felt so very unsure about it, soooo. Well, that's that. Now it's summer, so I'll have far more free time.<p>

_Note: Saeko was the name used for Ami's mum in PGSM (the live-action). Ami's father remains unnamed 'cause I'm a free b**ch, baby! Well, also, I liked leaving him unnamed._

Gratzi for reading, double moonlight romance molto bene super gratzi if you review/comment/etc.

Best wishes to you and your own,

-Kate


	13. Odangoes For Ami?

**'Odangoes For Ami?!'**

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><strong>

**Words:** 1643

**Category:** Humor, Friendship, Introspective

**Characters:** Ami Mizuno, Minako Aino, Usagi Tsukino

**Type:** oneshot

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Kate-Le-Contrary

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><p><strong>DISCLAIMER: SAILOR MOON IS OWNED BY TOEI, KODANSHA, AND, MOST IMPORTANTLY, HRH EMPRESS <em>NAOKO TAKEUCHI<em>. FREDDY MERCURY AND 'UNDER PRESSURE' BELONG[ED{, RIP}] TO HIMSELF AND THE BAND QUEEN, AND THE ELEMENT MERCURY BELONGS TO YOU AND ME AND EVERYONE ELSE YAYYYYY WELL THERE ARE REGULATIONS BUT STILLLLL**.** PLEASE SUPPORT THE ENDEAVORS OF THE ORIGINAL CREATORS.**

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><p>She's got that kind of hair. That short-cropped short-stop waves-at-the-chin neat-girl hair.<p>

The kind that won't feature in any L'Oreal commercial, the kind that she looked at one day and thought could be a bit bluer.

People don't normally turn to look at her. Nope. If they're looking at her, it's usually because her name is above theirs on the score list and they're mouthing off the syllables of her name in a jealous rumor.

Sweet little Ami-chan can lip read. That's a delicious candy-wrapped piece of knowledge she'll never share with anyone, no matter how high tutors and informants get paid.

Oh, she does remember that day, back in middle school—the double takes people did when they realized she had actually dyed her hair, that uptight good-marks student who for some reason wasn't in a fancy private school. She finds she quite likes the attention, and once she realizes that, Ami does her best to convince herself she only did it because she has an affinity for the color. She doesn't care what people think about her hair—after all, she's fairly fashionable. She hopes no one would be surprised to learn she reads _Vogue_ in the bath…

Well, they don't know that she reads romance novels either, do they?

Eventually, practicality dictates that she might want to stop dyeing it to avoid recognize-ability after she finds out that she's actually an alien. From _Mercury._

Mercury—like Freddie Mercury, and Ami rolls her eyes when all the students in the Chemistry pressure unit are singing "Under Pressure" off-key and in atrocious English. Mercury, like a make of car. Mercury: like _Hg number 80_ on the Periodic Table, the toxic liquid metal. Her armor is blue. She has an affinity for the color, yes.

Here's another: Ami likes to have some shock-factor up her sleeve. _No, she's not changing the color any time soon. _Perhaps she likes that people don't expect her to look like she does. Ami is a genius, and self-deniability is a skill she treasures. _Still_ going to keep dyeing it. Even if almost no one finds it shocking anymore.

The facts scroll through her 'bluenette' head like they do across her compact computer: dry and useful.

Her life reads like an article to her, the kind that appears on tests but she's already read from her monthly _Scientific _or _Time_ subscription: until her dynamic turn into the double life of vigilantism, she never had to think about her hair much, her tiny gesture of rebellion from the norm and what people expect of her.

This is how the article would read if she wrote it as a third-personal commentary (like she sometimes does in her diary), she thinks:

"_Hair stylists across the globe agree on very few things, but one thing they are all pretty much certain of is that short hair—especially a bob cut—cannot possibly look good in a ponytail. Unless, as the Hollywood haircutters point out, the short hair is aided by extensions. Far be it from them to bring up pigtails, or a bun—heaven forbid a combination of both!"_

Of course, Usagi is not a hair stylist—ignoring any snarky remarks that may come from certain people—and is far less touchy on the subject of hair then she pretends to be. And while the high-paying customers of hair designers worldwide might obtain bruised feelings if such (pardon the pun) shortcomings in their hairstyles were pointed out….

…Well, Ami knows that she lacks that certain sensitivity. Entirely. Ami is one to count her shortcomings, related to fashion or otherwise.

That is, until Mina comes along. Mina—well. She fluffles dear Ami's hair almost subconsciously, and Ami notes to herself that Mina isn't one to believe that people have personal '_bubbles_'. Ami gets the feeling that Mina isn't shocked at all by 'the prude' with her blue hair, and feels a bit miffed at that.

"Bo—ring," Mina says in a maternal, happy way that might sound mean if it came from Rei's mouth. "Ami is_ my project!_" she chirps in announcement to the other blonde, and they skip down the sidewalk with a perplexed Ami arm-to-arm between them, heading for the large 'historic' mall downtown.

Mina really _does_ have that sort of hair that frames Revlon ads and the sides of billboards, the kind of flowing mane that sells _Summer Delight_ perfume to the offertories of department stores everywhere. With rock star locks, a movie star mane, Mina is wholly convinced that she can impart her beautician-goer's wisdom upon Ami.

Ami is more than shocked when Mina and Usagi bustle her into that first salon, then out again after a loud and embarrassing exclamation about prices, then into the interior of the mall that Ami thinks was designed to somewhat resemble Kuwait.

"Let's just do it ourselves!" Usagi suggests, pushing calm Ami onto the empty bandstand in the middle of the plaza. Out like contraband from what is probably a subspace pocket comes a large makeup bag stuffed with bobby pins and other sharp accessories that Ami herself is sparse with. The bag is emptied messily: what looks to be a billion yen's worth of clips and bobby pins and colored ties decorate Ami's feet and lap. Mina and Usagi step onto the bandstand so as to be higher than Ami, grabbing handfuls of the items strewn at Ami's sides.

And they begin, in a whirlwind of hair-designing knowledge that appears only at slumber parties and boring-hair emergencies like today. Hairspray emerges, bottles upon bottles of product secreted within Minako's 'special pocket'. Artemis would be annoyed if he knew.

Ami experiences the coif, the bouffant, the side-bangs and tiny braids that Usagi and Mina are enthralled with. _Really_ enthralled. Mina and Usagi are shouting encouragement and suggestions at each other, and people have begun to look at them out of the corners of their eyes and edge away surreptitiously. A few kids come nearer in curiosity.

"Oh yes!" Mina beams, "this is _wonderful._"

Ami bears it, having long-since lost feeling along her hairline where the neat comb (where did _that_ come from?) keeps parting and re-parting. By now, a small crowd of onlookers has formed on the bench across the way—a tourist family, taking pictures of Ami's discomfort and the blondes' glee as they wait for their guide.

That's about when the rest of the tour group shows up, and people start making requests.

Ami is mortified, and pretends not to understand English. Unfortunately, she has forgotten that Minako lived in England for a great number of years, and speaks fluently.

"Sure, we can do a Mohawk on her! That would be so _cute _and _punk_! Ami the Yankee!" she squeals, and Ami is mortified. Strangely enough, there is some part of her that is glad that about twenty people are now staring at her. She stifles this feeling, a look of blank endurance crossing her face.

She didn't think it would be possible. Ami sneezes as more hairspray sachets her in a cloud, and tentatively feels for the Mohawk the two blondes have managed to make on her head. Mina slaps Ami's hand away, and eagerly starts on the next request. Usagi is just undoing a spiky crown braid when a little kid starts chanting in English: "_buns buns BUNS!_" and his mother shushes him ("don't be rude to the performers, Ethan!") but Minako and Usagi's eyes gleam anew at the challenge. Their zeal roars stronger when someone else wordlessly points at Usagi's head.

"Like_ those_?" Minako asks, and the little boy nods.

Ami will never know how it was done. It might have been the still pins-dropping-everywhere almost-silence, or the two blonde hellions at work in Ami's blue locks, but she somehow ends up with two perfect buns on each side of her head. Usagi looks emotional, and Minako clasps her hands in (for once) wordless wonder. Ami grabs a compact and looks at herself in the tiny mirror, not nearly as horrified at this whole ordeal as she might have been a year ago.

Ami knows logic. She knows it very well. And, logically, _there is no way on any planet in any dimension that her hair is long enough to look like it does now._

"TENTH WONDER OF THE WORLD!" Minako hollers, and bows to the thick crowd of gawking foreigners with all her effected showmanship. Ami's cheeks heat.

"We've done it!" Usagi cries out to the mall. "ODANGOES FOR AMI!"

"Take a picture, Mina!" Usagi says frantically, but that's when the mall security finally rounds the corner and they are booted unceremoniously from the mall, despite the pleas and screeching protests of Usagi. Ami feels relief.

But Ami's hair has tumbled down—and Usagi and Minako, distraught, wail once they realize they will never have photographic evidence.

Ami ignores the pair of them for once, and feels her cheeks with the back of one hand—huh. She's not blushing so much anymore. Perhaps she's become so used to their shenanigans that she can take public humiliation more coolly now. She looks forward to hearing the second-hand version of what Ami Mizuno and her wild friends did at school. That would show them she wasn't just some predictable A-student for every moment of her life!

And _that _was the moment in history that Ami would later point to and say was when she fully embraced her sense of scandal.

Ami turned to the two of them and grinned suddenly, an action that startled Usagi into sudden silence.

"That…was sort of fun," she said casually, "Let's go to the mall sometime again." Ami flicked her blue bob-cut so it fell neatly once more, and grabbed her two friends.

The three of them skipped away, beaming.

It _was_ a fairly routine day, after all.

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><p>.<p>

**A/N:** Another Ami-centric oneshot, this time the title-inspiring first idea for this anthology! So, I've been working on a slew of SM stories recently, but haven't finished any... I've had a lot of personal stuff going on, and am trying (_trying!_) to do NaNoWriMo for the third time (and am hopelessly behind, unlike the other two times). These sporadic updates are why I decided to make a huge oneshot bundle in the first place, rather than having a multi-chapter plotathon of epicness that might be left unfinished (no one likes those!). Anyway, hope you enjoy. (Also, I have ho beta, so pardon any spelling errors/grammatical mistakes. I will update with an edited version when I can.) Currently in the works: Rei-centric speculative oneshot, Makoto-centric Western AU...possibly a Sailor V tale that threatens to become multi-chapter. And some drabbles, since I've had absolutely none of those.

Have a good day!

-Kate


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